They had emerged from the swamp and were riding through a high, fertile region of farming lands. The moon was rolling high in the heavens, while far toward the east was a faint lightning, the promise of dawn. Once after crossing a bridge they pulled up and listened, and then rode off into the bushes and stood quietly in hiding. They were evidently anxious to avoid pursuit. Once pistol shots followed them as they fled through the night. At Weston a crowd of men awaited them, and crossed over to the other side in company with Bill’s party. Warren was thrown into a wagon. Presently they stepped from the boat to Missouri’s shore. CHAPTER X. Warren looked about him in the light of the flaming torches. Men poured down to the water’s edge as fast as they could come. The crowds which surged through the streets day and night were rushing toward the wagon where lay the prisoner, their faces distorted like demons with evil passions. Bill Thomson mounted the wagon-seat and with an oratorical flourish recounted the prisoner’s sins against the “principles of the institootion.” “Gentlemen, take notice!” said Gid Holmes as Bill finished. “This yere man is a abolitionist an’ a nigger thief, two crimes we never overlooks, bein’ dangerous to our peace and principles. What’s your will, gentlemen? Speak out.” “Give him a thrashing first!” “Hang him!” “Burn him!” And the ruffians dragged the wounded man from the wagon and threw themselves upon him--kicking him in the body--in the face and head--spitting upon him and maltreating him in every way. He defended himself well for a while; his bright head would rise from their buffeting. “To the cross-roads!” came the hoarse cry from a thousand throats. Tramp, tramp, on they rushed like a dark river, with cries whose horror was indescribable. It was not the voices of human beings, but more like the cries of wild animals, the screaming of enraged hyenas, the snarling of tigers, the angry, inarticulate cries of thousands of wild beasts in infuriated pursuit of their prey, yet with a something in it more sinister and blood curdling, for they were men, and added a human ferocity. On they rushed from north, south, east and west, eyes aflame, faces distorted, the brute latent in every human being coming out from his lair to blot out the man, the awful cries, waning, waxing. Maxwell was in the midst, half-running, half-dragged by a rope knotted about his neck. He fell; the thirsty executioners lifted him up, loosened the rope and gave him time to breathe. The tall young figure looked at the crowd with scorn. The British idea of fair play was in his mind. “Thousands against one,” he seemed to say, “Cowards!” The crowd moved on a little more slowly, and Warren was able to keep his feet without a tremor.